First Snow
by shortie is back
Summary: Even if you’d been brave enough, or stupid enough, to tell him what was really going on, there’s no way you’d be able to explain why getting to him at that very moment was more important than your own health. You can’t even explain that to yourself.


**First Snow**

_December 6, 1899, 10:22pm_

The ground is frozen and stiff beneath your quick-paced steps and your breath comes in translucent white puffs, entirely too visible in the dark sky for your taste. It's freezing out, below freezing actually, or so today's paper said. You aren't sure why you even bothered to check it; you know what cold feels like. That's something you've always known.

Racetrack had found some old, wooden furniture sitting on the side on the road earlier today. You want to cry imaging the roaring fire that it must have helped to create back at the lodging house, keeping all of your friends warm while you, for some reason, trek the familiar yet much too long path to Brooklyn.

"What's in Brooklyn that's so important that you couldn't wait?" Mush had asked you incredulously while you bundled yourself up in whatever warm clothing you could find, "It's the coldest night of the year!"

You couldn't answer. Even if you'd been brave (or stupid) enough to tell him what was really going on, there's no way you'd be able to explain why getting to him at _that very moment _was more important than your own health. You can't even explain that to yourself.

You see the bridge just as you begin to lose all feeling in your now-purple fingers. You'd pump a fist in the air in relief if you weren't worried that your frozen joints would shatter at the sudden movement. You pass the dock, which, though a flurry of activity in warmer times, is still and serene, a thin layer of ice forming on top of the water. Spot's throne, large and regal in its own right, stands abandoned. The area is deserted. Even the homeless kids have found somewhere to go tonight.

Your frozen knuckles ache as you rap them on the heavy oak door of the Brooklyn Lodging house and you stand there unable to move except for the shivers that pass through your body every few seconds. The door swings open suddenly, and you catch a quick glimpse of a younger newsie's surprised expression before collapsing face first onto the ground.

* * *

_December 7, 1899, 2:42am_

When you wake up, you're comfortable; the bed you're lying on is soft and the air around you is warm. You hear a fire crackling somewhere and burrow farther under the scratchy blanket that you find draped over you.

It smells like him.

Suddenly realizing where you are, your eyes fly open, landing first on his pants clad knee and slowly moving up until your gaze rests on his highly amused smirk.

"You're an idiot, you know that?" He looks like he's trying not to laugh. Typical.

You mutter something nonsensical, even to you, and close your eyes, trying to block him out again.

"Don't you dare ignore me, Jacky-boy. You didn't almost kill yourself walking here just so that you could ignore me."

It really, really bugs you when he's right.

Slowly you sit up, groaning as your finally-thawed-but-still-incredibly-sore joints protest the movement. His hand is on the bed, right next to your leg, holding up his weight. You grab it and it disrupts his balance, making him fall right into you. He looks like he's about to say something, but you wrap your arms around his much smaller body and he seems to change his mind.

He leans back against you, his head resting on your clavicle as you run your hand through his fine, blond hair. You don't know how long you sit like that in complete silence, but it's comfortable. You've never _not _felt comfortable with Spot Conlon.

"You really fucking scared me," he says, finally breaking the silence.

You shrug and his head slips down a notch on your chest. "Sorry."

"Why are you here?"

"Because I want to be," you tell him and that's enough for both of you. You always do what you want to.

The easy silence encloses you again. You continue to stroke his hair as his index finger traces lazy circles on your knee.

"I'm glad you're here."

A frantic banging drowns out what would have been your answer.

"Oh fuck, what now," Spot gripes, getting up.

The knocking becomes accompanied by equally hysterical shouts of "Conlon! Conlon! Conlon!"

"_What_?" he yells, throwing open the door. The younger newsie that had been banging recoils at the harsh voice.

"I thought you'd wanna know… it's snowing."

And sure enough, when you look out the dusty window in Spot's room, fat white flakes are falling from the hazy gray sky and already collecting on the ground. It's the first snow of the winter, and to you it couldn't have come on a better night.

You hear the door close and suddenly his arms are around you from behind. "I'm really glad you're here," he repeats, whispering into your ear before nipping at the lobe. You shiver, and for once it isn't because of the cold.

You're really glad that you're there too.

* * *

**Alex's note:**

I randomly found this on my old hard drive when I was looking for music from before my computer killed itself last summer! I totally forgot it even existed!

It was written for **Sinhe** for the Refuge's secret slash '05; prompt was something like "Jack/Spot first snowfall" so yeah.

please review!


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